


His Last Bow

by Katzedecimal



Series: Rat, Wedding, Bow [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, playing fast & loose with the ACD canon, tw: mention of rape as a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonel Moran is preparing to close his final contract -- how are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson going to stop him when they still can't <i>find</i> him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_"No. All right, stop it now."_

_"No, John, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call – it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"No! Don’t! SHERLOCK!"_

_Falling_

_So_

_**Fast** _

_Striking_

_So_

_**HARD** _

_"Sherlock, Sherlock... He’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please."_

_fingers on his wrist searching for a pulse_

_"Please. Please. Sherlock. One more miracle."_

_Tears streaming down face leaning over him blocking out the sun._

_"One more miracle."_

_Cracking apart the bullet screaming the blood and brains spilling and spraying the bullet screaming_

_Rendering it all useless_

_Screaming_

_John_

_John_

_**JOHN** _

The sun wasn't up yet. The even cloud cover diffused the dim twilight, turning everything to a greyish blue that spoke of "gloomy" and "dismal." He blinked in the dim not-quite-light, swallowing down the scream that had stuck in his throat, choking him. Then he collapsed back onto his pillow. The space beside him was warm. 

Smells. Aromas. Tea. Woodsy aftershave. Cheap shampoo. Tea. He looked around.

**John.**

He bolted up, unable to stop himself from touching John's forehead, his hand then fluttering to the back of John's head, drifing down to his nape. "I'm fine," John said softly, submitting to the touches that told him exactly what his friend had dreamed, "Sherlock.. I'm fine."

He nodded, still unable to form words. He took the tea and gulped it, scalding tongue and throat. He sank back onto the bed and drew his knees up tight against his chest. John sat beside him and rubbed his shoulders soothingly. "Tell me..." he whispered, his voice cracking harshly. He took another sip of the tea, the liquid essence of the comfort that was John, "Tell me... What did you deduce from Mycroft's house?"

John blinked slowly in surprise, his own mind still as dim as the light, woken from his sleep by the sounds of his partner in distress. He looked at his knees then closed his eyes, trying to recall what he had seen on his tour of the large estate. "Mycroft chose the pictures and set them in place, so it's his perception... That portrait of your father used to be in the dining room; he had it moved to the drawing room. It doesn't look used at all, probably only the servants go in there to dust; he doesn't want to look at your father. Or doesn't want him looking at him - the eyes follow you around the room. There aren't any other pictures of your father on display. You said your father was involved with you but you don't call him Daddy. You never speak of him and when you do, you have that growl in your voice that means 'I don't want to talk about this.'" Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smirk. "He probably saw his role as disciplinarian. He was probably controlling, most likely set you both against each other in the belief that competition was healthy for boys, but he had such high standards, it was impossible for you to meet them. You couldn't please him no matter how hard you tried, so you stopped trying." Sherlock nodded slightly, his hands wrapped around the tea. "You two used to be close, you and Mycroft; it's obvious in those pictures in the family room. The competition drove you apart, being set up against each other. I bet you heard 'Why can't you be more like Mycroft' a lot, didn't you?" Sherlock smirked and nodded. "But I'll bet that Mycroft didn't start getting it 'right' until you came along to do it worse than he did."

"He got a lot more 'right' when I started deducing our father's illicit affairs," Sherlock said quietly. 

John burst into giggles, "Oh god!"

"And his patent thievery and his thefts of Mummy's work..."

"Oh god," John said again, "He was a right piece of work, your Dad, wasn't he?"

Sherlock chuckled lowly and sipped the tea again. "What else did you deduce?"

"You don't like thinking about your childhood," John replied, "You're uncomfortable there but it isn't just because of Mycroft. You didn't want to open your old bedroom and you didn't want to linger long in the family room." He rubbed Sherlock's shoulders again then said quietly, "Mycroft misses the closeness you used to have. It's in the way the pictures are grouped and their location in the family room, and in the tread worn into the carpet, where he walks across and stands to look at them."

Sherlock sipped again, leaning slightly into John. "Mycroft doesn't have any pictures of our father because our father's in his head," he said quietly, "He sees him every time he looks in the mirror. A man as establishment and by-the-book as he is, you'd think he would have married and had 2.5 children and a dog by now - why hasn't he? Because he knows it, and he knows he'd be the same kind of father, and he just can't bring himself to do it."

John nodded slowly, unable to argue with that. "Pity though," he offered, "You'd be perfect as that mad uncle that the grown-ups don't want to talk about, who the kids all love."

Sherlock chuckled, " _You'd_ be the uncle all the teenagers talk to about the things they don't want their parents to know."

"True," John agreed. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock and rubbed the cap of his shoulder, "What do you say to some breakfast? Fancy a fry-up?"

"Nngh," Sherlock made a brief face, "Could do one of those fruit drinks of yours."

"A smoothie? Really? Alright then," John shrugged -- if it got nutrients into Sherlock, he was all for it. Fifteen minutes (and a lot of noise) later, he sat down on the couch, set his glass down, and flipped on the telly. Sherlock took a long draught from his glass then lay down on the couch, laying his head in John's lap. John flipped the channel to the early morning news, then let his hand fall to card through Sherlock's curls. 

For a moment, peace reigned in the flat. John had Sherlock; Sherlock had John. They were together again, in 221b Baker Street, and all was well. Sherlock lifted a hand to touch John's face lightly, his fingers ghosting over John's tender smile then lightly over his stubbled chin. John pressed his cheek into the touch, wondering what his best friend was deducing from it. Then Sherlock rolled to face the screen, wrapping his arm around John's knees. 

"..received this breaking news story: The Honourable Ronald Adair, son of the Earl of Maynooth, was found murdered this morning at his home in Park Lane..."

"There you go, just the thing to take your mind off your worries," John smiled, "A nice fresh murder."

Sherlock snerked, "Probably boring. Jealous wife or mistress, unpaid dealer, that sort of thing."

"Walked in on a theft in progress," John agreed, twirling Sherlock's curls into ringlets about his fingers. 

Then the programme showed a still image of Adair, taken at some happier time, and Sherlock sat up, blinking. "John, did you see that?"

"Hand me my laptop." John surfed for a few minutes, then, "Got it. Same picture." He opened it in his image enhancing software and zoomed in on the picture.

"What are you zooming on that for? I want to see his shoes!"

"You saw his shoes? I saw the pistol!" They stared at each other, then at the picture. Then Sherlock shot off the couch to look for his phone. 

He was stopped by the sound of feet tramping up the stairs as Mrs. Hudson hollared, _"Boys! You've got another one!"_


	2. Mouse Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade discuss the murder of Ronald Adair. Steve and Anthony want treats.

It was a blackly funny sight. Both Sherlock _and_ Lestrade were sitting on the floor, in the coroplast playpen, playing with the rats while they discussed the gory murder. It was something for the Terribly Wrong file and John just couldn't stop laughing about it. Two grown men sitting on the floor, looking at the crime scene photos of an upscale young man literally half out of his head, tickling rats and sending them zooming around and popcorn-hopping. John took out his phone and took a quick video, intending to file it under "things that don't happen to other people."

"..Looking like a poker debt gone wrong," Lestrade was saying, "..What's he doing?"

Sherlock looked down at Steve, who was twirling in a little circle. "Oh. He wants some brocolli." He reached into the treat bin and pulled out a floret. "I was teaching them tricks and I used a different treat to reward each type of trick."

Greg stared at him, "And now they do the trick when they want that treat. You've given them a way to communicate with you."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes. It wasn't wholly intentional. I was unaware they would form such cohesive thought as to identify specific desires and communicate them successfully." He spotted Anthony walking on his hind legs and gave him the requested raisin. Then Steve got jealous and reared up to take a few vertical steps, also demanding a raisin.

Greg shook his head, "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You're the Rat Whisperer, that's what you are." He shook his head again and pet the rats. "As I was saying, initial investigation is looking like a gambling debt - Adair was known to play quite a lot of card games and was particularly skilled at poker. But it's a locked-room."

"Tell me the particulars."

"The door was locked on the inside, so when our man didn't respond, it had to be forced. The unfortunate chap was found lying near the table, as you see by the pictures. His head has been horribly mutilated by the shot but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay seventeen hundred pounds in notes, the money arranged in little piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some gambling club friends opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards." Lestrade took a swig of his tea and continued, "A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why the young man should have locked the door from the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done this, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a flower bed in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be a remarkable shot. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare, yet no one heard anything. BUT! - not very long afterward, Dr. Watson and I were shot at by a sniper with a silencer on his rifle, a long-distance crack shot that John assures me **could** shoot through that window."

Sherlock nodded, "So he sent his accomplice Adair to murder Lord and Lady Trelawny Hope, then dispatched Adair after making it look like a gambling debt gone wrong, leaving it set up as a nice little locked-room mystery to draw out John and I. But then he ran into you two and couldn't resist trying to close contract early, which blew his entire set-up. It would have worked if he hadn't gotten impatient."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," Lestrade breathed, "This bloke's playing a long game to set up a trap."

"Well, he was Moriarty's chief shooter," Sherlock sighed, "And it seems he's tying up his loose ends prior to quitting the business."

"And we're no closer to catching him," Greg sighed, frustrated. He extended his arm towards Sherlock with a determined gaze, "Go! my minion!" 

Steve ran down Lestrade's arm and hopped across onto Sherlock's shoulder, making him grin at the chirps of ratty laughter coming through the bat transducer. "Moriarty wanted to 'burn the heart out of me', so it'll be John that Moran wants the most."

"And it's definitely Moran. The DNA test results confirmed it."

Sherlock nodded, "We need to know more about that flat. Think you can find that fire escape again?"

"It was night but I"m sure, yes."

"Good. You do that, then. John and I have business elsewhere today."


	3. With This Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning at a tattoo studio shows Sherlock a possible solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running really slow due to the holidays and an indecisive Muse. Also, tw for mention of rape in this chapter, not graphic.

"'Closed for Private Function,'" John read.

"That's us," Sherlock smirked and pushed the door open, "You'll like them; they're fans of your blog."

"Oh great," John sighed and stepped in. They were greeted by a chorus of happy voices. He looked around at the tattoo studio while Sherlock stepped forward and greeted the artists. Eventually John realised he was being introduced. "Hello."

"We love your blog," the female artist, introduced as Emily, gushed, "We never stopped believing."

"Thank you," John said, "It means a lot to me, it really does."

"Anybody who **knew** Sherlock Holmes knew the papers were full of shite," Emily said fervently, "Anybody he'd ever solved a case for knew it."

"We've finished the designs," Chris, the male artist, said, bringing over some stencils, "Mr. Holmes did some amazing sketches so it was quite easy, really. Is this what you wanted?"

John stared and had to fight back the pressure of tears. The sketches were identical, absolutely identical, to the beautiful rings they'd had to leave behind, reluctantly, in Oslo. The gorgeous intertwined knotwork and the fiery diamond were all there. "It's perfect. It's beautiful."

"Alright then! Would you like some tea? Then we'll get started."

John sat down, noticing how the tables had been pushed around to allow him and Sherlock to sit next to each other and even touch each other with their free hands. He was a little bit surprised that they'd closed the shop for them but he was long used to the odd ways that people showed their gratitude to Sherlock. As Chris started transfering the stencil onto John's skin, he looked at the masks on the studio walls again. 

"Those masks are very interesting, very detailed," Sherlock said. 

"Thank you," Chris said, not looking up.

"They're masks of the faces of our most frequent customers and some of our friends," Emily said, working on Sherlock, "Chris makes them with papier mache as a mold."

Sherlock sat back thoughtfully. John winced as Chris got to work with the needle but didn't flinch. "So, Sherlock solved a case for you, then?"

Chris nodded, "He sure did! He found out who raped us!"

That should not have been said nearly as cheerfully as it was. John blinked several times and all he could think to say was "Really?"

"It was Emily's mum who made the initial call. Emily'd been done first but the coppers just brushed her off. Then her mum got done, in her own bloody home. Thing is, she's a widow, Emily's Dad died only two years ago, she's nowhere near ready to date again, so she certainly wasn't cruising any bars, but the coppers weren't listening. There was no semen, so they said there wasn't any evidence. So she turned to Sherlock Holmes."

"She was brilliant," Sherlock smiled in remembrance, "What's the first instinct of any sexual assault victim, John? To have a wash. Emily's mum went for a fortnight without a wash, in the hopes that someone would look for other evidence. I sent her to Molly; Molly found **plenty** of evidence."

"Good lord!"

"She found condom residue, of course. And she found hair, skin cells, saliva, all the DNA evidence I could hope for. Matched it up with their dentist."

"Dentist?! Oh bloody hell!"

Chris nodded, "That was when he found me."

"Chris was the last patient of the day. People are usually a bit under the weather when they emerge from a dental office after a procedure but Chris looked particularly off, so I followed him home. He passed out in his front room. Half an hour later, along comes the dentist. He'd been dosing his victims with a slow-acting sedative then getting their home addresses from his patient files."

"He saved me," Chris said, "And that's how I met Emily."

"Bloody hell," John breathed again, "That's one hell of a 'how I met your mother' story!"

"It wasn't difficult," Sherlock shrugged, "If the police had put their prejudices aside and stretched their imaginations just a little, they could have solved it just as quickly. Three guesses who was on Forensics, though."

"Anderson," John sighed, "So that's why you took the case. But he can't honestly believe that DNA is only present in semen?"

"Oh he's fine if he's handed a murder, but put him on sexual assault and his idiocy engine revs up past the red line."

"Christ," John shook his head, "And these are our bloody police, to serve and protect, and we're supposed to **trust** them. Glory hallelujah."

Sherlock snickered, while Chris and Emily had to pause their activity because they were laughing so hard. His phone chimed and he looked down to read the text. His eyes narrowed briefly then his face took on a more calculating expression. "Tell me more about how you make those masks," he said. 

"They're not difficult, just takes patience," Chris said, "I use very small strips of papier mache to get the closest fit to the face, with as few creases as possible."

"Does it take you long to make one?"

"Better part of a morning to make the shell," Chris shrugged. 

"Could you make them in ballistics gel?"

Chris looked up, blinking, "Probably.. Probably, if I could get it, it would probably work."

Sherlock went to steeple his fingers then remembered his other hand was currently captive, so his free hand flailed uselessly for a moment then he put it down. "I suppose it could be mounted to a mannequin if we could find a mannequin of the right shape..."

"What about a duct tape double?" Emily looked up. 

"A what?"

"A duct tape double. Chris made one for me for my sewing. He used old t-shirts and duct tape to make a duplicate of my body. It's almost perfect."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Could you do that? How long would it take you to do that?"

"About an afternoon."

"And a mask? You said it takes a morning?"

"Yes, but then the papier mache has to dry and I don't know how long it would take your ballistics gel to set up."

"If you used medical quick-drying plaster?"

"I don't know. Best call it at least a day or two days."

"I can get you the materials."

"You want us to make a.. a double of you, Mr. Holmes?" Emily said.

"Not of me," Sherlock replied, "Of John."

"Hang on, what's this about?" John interjected.

"I just got a text from Lestrade -- that building the other night, it's directly across from our flat."

John sucked in his breath and let it out again, "So you want to build a decoy of me to use as bait."

"Exactly."

"Hang on," Chris sat up, "Are you in danger? And we can help? Let me make a few calls then, it'll go faster with extra hands and I can get some materials."

Sherlock nodded, "Alright. Pause?" 

The next few minutes were spent in a flurry of telecommunications. Sherlock texted Molly and Lestrade while Chris phoned a few of his friends, asking for duct tape and t-shirts. Once assured that everything was on its way, they turned their attention back to the matter of the rings. The artists referenced pieces of gold and an actual diamond, to portray the light effects accurately and the finished artwork looked so stunningly real, John was almost saddened when it was hidden away under a layer of gauze bandage. 

"That has to stay on for two hours. No peeking!" Chris chuckled, then instructed John on the aftercare of the colourful wound. By then, Chris's friends had arrived, bringing several boxes of duct tape, some t-shirts, some coat hangers and several bags of fibrefill. "We'll do the DTD first," he decided, "You'll need to lie down for the mask and while it dries. So, Dr. Watson, if you can change into a t-shirt?"

"It's a bit tight," John said when he came back. Actually, it was a lot tight, straining across his chest and showing every detail, but Chris assured him that would make for a more accurate double. 

Even with many hands (including Sherlock's) helping to place the tape, it still took hours and John felt stiff and tired when he was finally cut free. By then, the medical tape had been delivered and John could get a bite to eat before submitting to having his face greased with petroleum jelly then coated in tape. By the time the mask was lifted from his face, it was late and John was exhausted. 

"Forensics will tell me when the head is ready," Sherlock reported, looking up from his phone, "We're to drop the mask off at the nearest station and they'll pick it up. My word, that _is_ close." It was. John stood next to the finished body double and let Sherlock take a picture. With John's jumper over it, it was practically identical. He put his phone away and looked at John, "Dinner at Angelo's?"

"It's getting on awfully late, won't he be closing up soon?"

"I texted him half an hour ago. He's staying open for us, seeing as it's a special occasion."


	4. Steeped in Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally spots his quarry, but then things go horribly wrong.

It was a grey and foggy morning. John stretched then winced, still sore after yesterday's activities. The space beside him was cold but the thin strains of the violin floated up. John rolled over and looked at his ring. 

He thought about how he used to think he had just about everything he needed with Sherlock, save intimacy. He thought of all the times that Sherlock had sat too close to him and all of the times Sherlock had touched his shoulder or touched his hand when taking something from him. He thought of the times that Sherlock had taken his hand and held it, even before they were forced on the run together. And John thought about how he had let go to take Sherlock's coat sleeve instead, or pulled his hand back, or skootched away from him. All the times that Sherlock had reached out to him, only for John to pull away. Only for John to complain about it. Only for John to complain about how Sherlock never let him in. _I'm a sodding idiot. He was knocking all along but I was afraid to open the door, so instead I bitched at him about not using the doorbell. I'm sorry it took me so long, Sherlock._

He rolled over again and pulled Sherlock's pillow under his cheek, smiling at the aroma that clung to it, then looked at his ring again. Really married now. Ring, papers, vows, all of it. Married. Civilly partnered. Off the market. Confirmed spouse Dr. John H. Watson-Holmes, M.D. ...although probably just keeping the Watson, for professional purposes.

It still hadn't really sunk in. 

He reached up and pulled plush-otter Sherlock down from the headboard and snuggled him, listening to the violin singing downstairs. He could just make out a sound like voices in conversation and he concentrated, trying to make them out. The low rumbly one, that was Sherlock; the higher quavery one was most likely Mrs. Hudson. John smiled and snuggled deeper under his blankets, closing his eyes again, intent on kipping a bit more. The violin sang on, sweetly lilting. _Content but pensive,_ John decided, pleased that he had learned how to read Sherlock's moods through his music. 

The relationship had been souring, John realised then. Right around Baskerville, it had been showing the symptoms. All of Sherlock's traits that had once fascinated John then only angered him. By the time Moriarty had pulled off his plan, John had been ripe for buying into it - but for whatever reason, he hadn't. He almost had, but he hadn't. 

Then he had lost Sherlock. No more experiments, no more body parts, the flat stayed clean after he tidied it, no more irrational requests. No more embarrassing deductions, no more disparaging snark during telly. John had his normal life - steady job, stable schedule, regular meals. No wild chases, no battlefield of London, no violin at two in the morning. No violin singing, comforting him when he snapped awake in the night, grounding him in London when he had the taste of sand and blood in his mouth. No cases validating his existance, making him feel like he was making a difference in people's lives. No pale glances instantly deducing whether he needed a quiet night in, a challenge to his medical knowledge, or a night out on the town trying to convince an impervious Angelo that they weren't **actually** a couple. He wasn't bothered anymore, he wasn't irritated by constant demands. He wasn't needed anymore. He wasn't wanted anymore. 

And having that back - the validation, the sense of purpose, having a real, measurable impact, being needed, being wanted, being known and comforted and understood - meant having back all of the other things that had become irritating. But John had made a decision and he knew it had been the right one. He had been given this quirky, interesting, loyal man and, like a fool, he had looked his gift horse in the mouth - he wouldn't be so foolish ever again. 

When he opened his eyes again a while later, he registered a distant, irregular tap-tap-tap. _Umbrella,_ he sleepily identified it, _Bloody Mycroft's here._ He sighed and listened, picking up the distant conversation downstairs.

"No, think about it, Sherlock, you just got married," That was Mycroft. "Granted it's been stretched out a bit, but the usual progression is to have a reception party then spend a few days on honeymoon. You just got home from three years of globetrotting, it'd be understandable that you wouldn't want to go very far and might want to spend the time with your family.." Sherlock's rumbled reply was too indistinct for John to make out. "Yes I know, but this is how _other people_ would interpret." Another low rumble answered this then John was surprised to hear a pleading note enter Mycroft's voice, "Oh for heaven's sake, Sherlock, **you just got married!** And you're the first Holmes in probably four generations to get married because you _wanted to._ Can't you give me this? Please?"

There was a long silence, during which John tried to imagine Sherlock's reaction to this. Then Sherlock answered, "May I invite some people?"

"Of course you may," there was no mistaking the pleased relief in Mycroft's tone, "Anyone you like. And I will close the entire west wing for you if you wish it." The answer to that was a non-commital grunt. 

John decided he'd best get up now. He tucked otter!Sherlock behind the headboard with his teddy!John then got up to pull his dressing gown on and shuffle downstairs. "'Morning, Mycroft," he said as he shuffled past to put the kettle on.

"Good morning, John," Mycroft's smile was almost genuine, John thought. Then he turned back to his little brother, "I shall make the arrangements, then, and notify you. Keep me informed." He got up and offered John another smile, "Have a good morning, John. I shall see you later."

"What was that all about?" John asked when he had gone, "Mycroft wants to throw us a reception?"

"Hn," Sherlock grunted, "He wants us to stay with him while we deploy the bait."

John nodded, "Sounds like a good excuse."

"The Yard's just texted me. They say the head is ready to pick up."

"There are so many things wrong with that sentence," John chuckled.

* * * *

It was a deeply disturbing sight. The golden gel didn't look very human and its slight translucency fooled the eye when looking at it straight on. But when turned to the side, its silhouette was exactly that of Dr. John H. Watson. What was worse, they'd found a wig for it somewhere. Sherlock lifted it up and examined it critically and John burst into giggles. Sherlock gave him a mock glare and said, "What's so funny, Horatio?" that set John off again. 

"Listen to him," they turned around at the sound of Lestrade's amused voice, "He sounds like a little girl! How do you stand it?"

Sherlock smiled, "I find it endearing." He nodded with satisfaction and put the head into its box.

"Hey, there's my boys!" Lestrade greeted the two whiskery heads that had popped up at the sound of his voice. Steve and Anthony crawled out of the carry pouch at John's hip and into Greg's arms. He rubbed their heads affectionately, ignoring the various expressions of the ballistics workers. Then he turned serious, "I have plainclothes covering both flats at all times. One way or another, we **will** catch this bloke."

Sherlock nodded, "We'll take this back and set up, then. Got your invitation?"

"I did," Greg beamed.

"See you tonight, then," Sherlock wove the box flaps together then looped his scarf around his neck. 

Lestrade took a step back and lifted his arm towards Sherlock with a mock-fierce glare, "Go, minions!" Steve and Anthony raced down along his arm and hopped across to Sherlock, making all of them laugh. Sherlock petted them and let them slip back into the pouch with John, then picked up the box.

Cab hailing was proving to be more of a challenge than usual. Sherlock huffed in frustration and scanned the street again, feeling agitated. Feeling more agitated than usual, actually. He looked around the street again.

"Sherlock..." John was looking down at the rats. 

Quickly Sherlock looked around the street again, scanning shadows, windows, cars... Someone was striding quickly and then he almost couldn't see for his mind flicking through the images of faces so rapidly, until it found a match. "It's him, John!" 

**_"Sherlock!"_** How could the man bolt so fast? John shook his head, racing after him, muttering, "Bloody hell, you idiot, I'm the one with the gun." And the box, which was slowing him down. He watched Moran swing up onto a fire escape and race up to the roof, watched Sherlock follow.. "How am I supposed to do that while carrying this?" John sighed and found an obscure nook to shove the box into, closed his eyes to fix its location in his memory, then scaled up onto the fire escape himself. 

He got there in time to see Moran leap boldly across the gap. Sherlock was hot on his heels, racing undeterred towards the edge -- then it was like his legs simply locked up and refused to cooperate. He balked at the edge, arms windmilling wildly. **"Sherlock!"** John ran forward, his gut filled with a dark dread. Then Sherlock staggered back and John knew instantly that something was very wrong. 

He looked confused. Little head and eye motions as his brain tried to process what his senses were telling him versus what his mind was insisting was true. _Oh bloody hell,_ John thought, realising and feeling sick with dread, "Sherlock...?"

Sherlock looked baffled, trapped between realities. Then, "St.. stop there, John..."

"Sherlock..."

"I.. can't come down... We'll have to do it like this..." Sherlock sounded like he was reciting from a script. 

_Oh God... If I get this wrong... Please God don't let me get this wrong..._ "Sherlock.. Listen to me," John said, desperately trying to think, "The... The lorry.. isn't ready... Sherlock, the lorry isn't ready. The plan won't work yet, Sherlock.. Please, step back, come here."

"It's a trick, John," Sherlock was still reciting, "Just a magic trick."

"The trick isn't ready yet, Sherlock," John said, cautiously approaching, "The lorry hasn't arrived."

"No, stay exactly where you are, don't move," Sherlock was now very confused as to where John was, but he stretched his hand towards John's actual voice, away from the ledge. 

"Alright," John said, reaching out his own hand, hoping he could catch Sherlock and coax him back. Then he felt the rats climbing out of their pouch and had an idea. "Boys... go!" 

The rats scampered down his arm and hopped onto Sherlock's. He startled and looked down, automatically clutching them to his chest, "Wha..?" John stepped forward and pulled him gently away from the edge as the rats scurried up and started licking Sherlock's jaw. He looked up, horribly confused, "John? .. What..." 

"Come over here, come sit over here." John felt Sherlock's breathing speed up as his panic rose and John realised what was about to happen. _Oh God, I hope I get it right this time, I blew it the first time so badly._ He got Sherlock seated and started to explain, "You had a full-immersion flashback. The edge must have triggered it." Sherlock focused on the rats as John's words washed over him. "Your memories came back so strongly, you had a moment of confusion." That had to be the understatement of the year.

"...It felt almost like I was dreaming."

"I know," John whispered, "But you're fine. It's fine. We're going to go home and have a cup of tea and then we're going to put the double together. Alright?" Sherlock nodded, stroking the rats but not really seeing them. "Alright. Come on, then. We'll pick up the head and go home."


	5. Receptive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's full of surprises, as John and Sherlock get their reception party.

Hailing cabs was much easier for Captain Watson than for Doctor Watson; John never did quite understand that there was a marked difference in his personality and bearing between his two selves. He'd gotten Sherlock home and settled in his chair and was now making a cup of tea for him. He hesitated for a moment before choosing the blend he favoured when either of them had had a nightmare. 

Sherlock had hunched up in his chair, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. John knew the posture of Sherlock in distress. He watched his best friend put his forehead to his knees and dig his fingers into his hair. _Here it comes,_ he thought, _I hope I get it right this time._ On the cab ride home, he'd surreptitiously refreshed his memory of what to do. He set the tea next to Sherlock and gently started to stroke his hair. 

"I can't work like this," Sherlock said softly.

"It's a problem," John conceded.

"How can I work if I'm going insane?"

"You're not insane," John said firmly.

"I'm pretty certain a psychotic break qualifies for insanity."

John chose his words carefully, "I'm not a psychiatric doctor but I've seen a lot of this in the army and I don't think that's what you had. I think you got trapped in some very strong memories, maybe strong enough to be similar to a hallucination, but it sounded like you were remembering. It didn't sound like you had broken away completely." 

Sherlock leaned his head into the petting then turned to press his face against John's belly. "I can't trust my mind, John. I can't trust my senses anymore."

John thought about how to say it. "It's dangerous," he agreed, "If Steve and Anthony hadn't... interrupted the memory, I.. It... well it would have been more than a bit not good." Sherlock pressed his face harder into John's jumper. "We can't handle this by ourselves, Sherlock," John said softly, "I can't watch you fall twice." Sherlock pressed his forehead back to his knees, rocking almost imperceptibly. "You're not insane, Sherlock," John crooned, still petting his hair, "Extremely vivid memories are a feature of post-traumatic stress - trust me, I **know.** " 

Sherlock twisted to look up at him, his eyes reddened and wet but not overflowing yet. He let John pull his head against his belly again and closed his eyes, only to see Moriarty laughing and tipping his gun into his--* He opened his eyes and shook his head violently. 

"Sherlock?"

"Tell me about your wife. What was she like?"

"Mary?" John was momentarily thrown by the change of subject, then remembered. "She wasn't actually my wife, just like you weren't actually dead," he replied. Sherlock nodded. "Agent Morstan was assigned to protect me. She was good, she played her part very well. It helped that we got on alright. She wasn't quite able to deal with my nightmares though, or my outbursts, but she did well enough."

"Did you sleep with her?"

"A few times. Not often."

"What happened to her? She died of leukemia?"

"No, that was our story to cover her leaving and free me up for you," John smiled, "Mary Watson died of leukemia; Agent Morstan finished her assignment with me and took another one. She's in Iceland now. I don't know what name she's using."

"Pass me my phone." Sherlock let his fingers linger on John's for a moment before taking the phone and pecking off a quick text. A few moments later, it rang. He got up and walked into the kitchen to have a tense conversation with the caller. Then he returned and picked up his lukewarm tea. When the phone rang again, he looked surprised but answered, then had another quick, tense conversation. Finally he came back to the front room, not quite looking at John. "Monday afternoon, then."

John knew how much this was costing him. "Hopefully someone more effective than Ella," he sighed.

"Mrs. Jones's clan is full of people like me, on her husband's side, and full of activists, freedom fighters, soldiers... It stands to reason there would be an experienced psychologist among them. I texted Bolivia."

"The doctor is in Bolivia?"

Sherlock had to smile, "Not the country; Bolivia Carter, Mrs. Jones's daughter. You met her briefly in Calgary. I travelled with them in Tibet as their cousin."

"Ahh, right - the lady who shocked Mycroft by telling him you were sweet and trouble-free."

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, "Having adopted me, they decided they didn't want to give me back. Doctor Emmerson's sister was part of our Tibet travel group, but I haven't met him. He sounded... interesting." 

"Networking pays off," John approved. Sherlock sat on the couch, shoulders hunched inward. John sat beside him and wrapped his arms lightly around his shoulders, embracing him in the way that Sherlock found the least overwhelming. He felt Sherlock tuck his face under John's jaw. 

After a while, Sherlock sat up and stretched, then gestured at the duct tape double, "Get one of your jumpers and we'll put that together. Might as well get this silly reception over with."

* * * *

"What the bloody hell is this?" John laughed, "Since when are you in a _band?_ "

Greg grinned, looping his guitar strap over his shoulder, "Since forever, it seems. We've been playing together for ages. When Sherlock invited me to your reception, I thought it would be a nice surprise."

Sherlock looked apprehensive, "How loud is this likely to get?"

"I promise we won't rattle the roof," Greg laughed, then introduced the members of his band. 

Mycroft had outdone himself. For someone who didn't like parties or social events any more than Sherlock did, he'd gone out of his way to fake it. His own chef had catered the event, providing a banquet that John couldn't wait to tuck into. Lestrade had provided one of the photographs that dominated the ballroom, a shot of John and Sherlock he'd taken during the Baskerville trip. John's arm was around Sherlock, who was leaning towards John. The other was a picture taken shortly after Sherlock's return: John and Sherlock standing together, their faces very close as though about to kiss or buss noses. John was gazing up at Sherlock adoringly and Sherlock's face glowed with some private, inner joy. Both had the same small, delicate smile. Mycroft had provided other photographs, including some scrolling montages of stills collected from various snapshots, videos and CCTV (the last being guaranteed to creep people out, John thought.)

The guests started arriving, beginning with Molly. She and Sherlock had a whispered conversation, during which she passed something to him but John couldn't see what it was. Whatever it was, it earned her a hug and kiss, so it had to be important. Then Mike Stamford arrived and John rushed over to talk to him.

"I never did thank you, did I?" he said, once they were both settled with their drinks and nibbles, "For introducing us."

"No thanks necessary, mate," Mike laughed.

"What I can't figure out is whether it meant you were for me or against me," John grinned, "Since you knew what he was like."

Mike laughed again. "A bit of both, perhaps," he admitted, "I remembered you as a more tolerant bloke than most, but I figured it might last you long enough to get your feet under yourself. I didn't think you'd get on as well as you did, but I'm glad of that."

"So am I," John sighed, "I'm also glad you didn't... you know..."

Mike shook his head, "No fear of that -- I knew the bloke for too long."

"All the same, Mike, thanks." 

A sudden commotion cut off whatever Mike might have said. John looked around to see Sherlock clasping the hands of three people of Middle Eastern descent and kissing their cheeks. He looked overwhelmed with relief. Then they were being brought over to John, who put on his polite smile as he was introduced to the Mokri family. They had helped Sherlock complete his mission in Iran, then needed Mycroft's help to get back out. John was surprised to learn that they were indirectly part of Mrs. Jones's clan, through their cousin who had married in. John was starting to understand how the system of favours and obligations tied the clan together and made it work. When John had asked his UNIT contacts for help, he'd never dreamed he'd be put through to his uncle's old colleague. 

He was talking to Greg between sets when a squeal made him look around to see a teenage girl literally hopping with joy, then seized up and twirled around by Sherlock. A teenage boy was given a brief shoulder-to-shoulder hug, no less fierce, then hugs, kisses and handshakes were dealt out to others John recognised as Sherlock's Tibet group. Then Molly was dragged over and introduced. Twenty minutes later, she was deeply engrossed in enthusiastic conversation with Karen, about _Glee._ Then the band started playing _The Time of My Life_ and John just couldn't stop smiling.

* * * *

Sherlock cleaned the last of the rosin off of his violin and tucked it into its case. He'd known that Lestrade played guitar but hadn't thought him to be in a band, nor that he had such a nice singing voice. He had to admit, it was very nice, accompanying him on _Dust in the Wind_ but he wasn't sure he wanted to take up the band's offer to play with them regularly. People were so fickle and there was really only one audience that he wanted to please. 

He slipped his shoulder holster into place and checked the time. John went to bed ninety minutes ago, after spending a few hours chatting with the Carters and Stamford and Lestrade and the band and... well, everyone, really -- typical John, got on with everyone. Mycroft slipped away not long after John, a perfect host to the end. The estate house was dark, the grounds lit only by the moonlight. It took him a few moments to disable the security system on the back entrance, then he slipped out into the night. 

He made it as far as the driveway before a voice said, "Going somewhere?"

He turned. "You were supposed to be asleep!" he accused. 

"Well, I wasn't," John smiled, "And I knew you wouldn't be. _And_ I'm not surprised you tried to do this without me."

"John..."

"Sherlock." They stared at each other, under the moonlight and the glow of London reflecting off of the clouds. John held out his hand, "You and me against the world, alright?" 

"Alright," Sherlock sighed, taking it. 

"Good. Now let's go get this bugger."


	6. The Empty Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Moran finally makes his move.

It was a dark and dusty flight. John followed Sherlock up the stairs, stepping carefully along the edges to avoid squeaks. He'd drawn his gun, standing over Sherlock while his friend picked the lock of the silent flat. They scouted it quickly then slipped inside. The light from the street spilled through the front window, painting the flat in amber and shadows. Directly across from them was the cosy glow of 221b Baker Street. 

The silhouette against the light made John startle for a moment. With its hair spiked a bit and one of John's jumpers on, the double was exactly that - it really did look like John, seated in his chair, working at his laptop. He flashed a quick grin at Sherlock then glanced quickly at the street, noting where Lestrade's plainclothes agents were dotted about the street, playing out the various roles that excused their hanging around. He squeezed Sherlock's hand briefly, then both of them melted into the shadows and settled in to wait. 

They stood together in the darkness and watched. Sherlock was silent and motionless but John could tell that his friend was keenly alert. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Once or twice it seemed to John that he had seen the same figure before. Then he noticed a woman who appeared to be sheltering from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street. He tried to draw his companion's attention but Sherlock gave a little hiss of impatience and continued to stare into the street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident that he was becoming uneasy and that his plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. John glanced out the window again then frowned and flicked his finger towards the silhouette in 221b.

"The shadow has moved," he whispered. It was no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned towards them.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of Sherlock's temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own. John, however, knew that it was anxiety and fear that motivated his terseness.

"Of course it has moved," he snapped, "Do you think I'm an idiot, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that one of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow is never seen."

John sucked in his breath, "You brought _Mrs. Hudson_ into this?"

"Don't be ridiculous, she insisted."

"Oh," John deflated - he knew how insistent Mrs. Hudson could be. 

Abruptly Sherlock drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light, his head was thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street seemed absolutely deserted. The woman might still have been crouching in the doorway, but John could no longer see her. All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of them with the black figure outlined upon its centre. An instant later Sherlock pulled John back into the blackest corner of the room. The fingers which clutched him were quivering. John had seldom seen Sherlock so agitated and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before them. But in Afghanistan, John had served with people who had senses as keen as Sherlock's and he knew better than to question them; questioning could cost lives.

Then he heard it: A low, stealthy sound, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which they lurked. A door opened and shut. An instant later steps crept down the passage -- steps which were meant to be silent but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. John pressed back against the wall, his hand closing upon the handle of his service pistol. The door opened and he saw the vague outline of a man, carrying a long case. 

John's army instincts took over and he went very still and calm. Completely unaware of their presence, Colonel Moran passed close beside him, stole over to the window, and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face and John could see the face of his stalker for the first time. The man seemed unnaturally calm. His eyes shone like stars, but his features were absolutely still. John felt cold in the pit of his stomach: He'd seen men like this, seen men turn into this. Men who'd had their souls stamped out until they became highly efficient killing machines. When the military turned its back on them, they tended to find work in the underworld. And this one, this Colonel Sebastian Moran, had found the perfect employer for his talents in Jim Moriarty. 

The long case he carried was a bassoon case, John saw as Moran laid it out on the floor. He opened it and withdrew his sniper rifle then spent a few moments checking it over. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open window and John heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder and sighted on his target, the black shape in the yellow light, sitting clearly visible across the street. For an instant he was rigid and motionless, then his finger tightened on the trigger. There was the whiz of the bullet through the silencer and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass, and the silhouetted figure jerked and slumped. Moran double-checked his sight then nodded with satisfaction and set his rifle down.

At that instant Sherlock sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his face. Moran was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Sherlock by the throat, but John struck him on the head with the butt of his pistol. Moran spun around with a look of shock. 

"'S up, chap?" John grinned, "You look like you've seen a ghost!" 

Then everything happened with treacle slowness. Moran brought up his side arm as John, reacting to some gut instinct, twisted away, shouting to Sherlock who was reaching forward to grapple the mercenary who shuddered as the side of his head burst open, spraying blood and bone fragments with a sharp crack of glass. The body toppled sideways and John and Sherlock stared at each other in shock and horror. Then time jolted forward again.

Sherlock dashed to the window to examine the small hole that had appeared there as John knelt to check Moran for vital signs. Both looked up as Sherlock's phone rang. "About time," Sherlock snapped into it. 

"Sorry, I was unavoidably delayed by being stalked by a sniper," Lestrade replied dryly, "Steve and Anthony had him pegged but I couldn't pinpoint him. I managed to lose him but then of course, I lost him."

"That's you down there? You're hurt!" John's head snapped up and Sherlock glanced at him.

"Yeah, he tagged me in the bicep."

"Bloody hell, Greg," John swore, "Stay where you are, I'm coming down." John hastily cleaned the worst of the blood off himself with an antiseptic wipe and rushed down to the street. "Come on," he chided the detective inspector, "Get that jacket off and let's have a look." John pulled a triangular bandage, some sterile gauze wraps, and a couple of plastic-wrapped packets out of his pockets.

"...Got your monthly, John?" Lestrade grinned.

"Don't laugh too hard, they're a brilliant field dressing," John chuckled as he worked, "They're meant to absorb blood, after all. There. That'll hold you while we get back to 221b and get you properly stitched."

"Oh boy, my very own Watson Special!" The thread-like, nearly invisible scars left by John Watson's suturing were practically legendary around NSY, as was Sherlock's absolute lack of shyness when asked to display his own examples. "Alright, Alright, I'm going, I'm going," he chuckled as John shooed him along.

"Nice deflection," Sherlock murmured as he approached.

"I'm certain I saw Mycroft's assistant," John said quietly, "And that shot didn't come from street level."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "Judging from the angle, it came from 221b."

* * * *

_[3:13 H. Watson: Mission complete.]_


	7. A Change of Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to deal with the three lives he'd saved.

It was a most upsetting sight. There was glass everywhere, the shards glinting dangerously in the streetlight pouring into the room. It crunched under Sherlock's shoes as he dashed through, calling for Mrs. Hudson. 

"I'm fine, Sherlock dear, I'm here," Mrs. Hudson came out of her A flat. She let him seize her upper arms and look her over. "I'm fine. I did it exactly as you told me to."

"Are you alright?"

She gazed at him. It was a statement of Sherlock's distress that he would ask a question she had already answered. She reached up to pat his cheek, "I'm fine, dear. I never had any doubt. You've done it again." She took a deep breath just in time to have it squeezed out of her by a bear hug. 

"You're probably not going to find much," John was telling Lestrade quietly when they re-entered 221b, "The British government has an interest in this fellow."

"You mean I'm not going to find out why there's fresh blood spatter across Sherlock's shirt," Lestrade retorted, "At an angle that indicates neither of you did the shooting."

John nodded, "That kind of not finding out, yes."

The detective inspector shook his head, "I'm not happy about that."

"Moran was on the watch list on the international scale," Sherlock said. He reached for a paper notebook and handed it to Lestrade, "It wasn't just the MI5 who wanted him."

"Your collection of M's is a fine one," said Lestrade, "Moriarty, Morgan the poisoner, Merridew..."

"Man had an abominable memory, he was almost too easy to catch up to."

"Jennifer Mathews..."

"Who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross."

John's head snapped up, "What?"

"Sorry, John."

"And, finally, here is our friend of tonight," Lestrade read for a bit and looked up, astonished, "This man was a British minister?"

"What?" He handed the book over to John, who read it and shook his head, "The man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

"It is true," Sherlock answered. "Up to a certain point he did well. He was a man of iron nerve. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran began to go wrong. He was quietly discharged, without any open scandal. He retired, came to London, and sought out Moriarty to learn what career opportunities might be open to a man of his abilities. For a time he was Moriarty's chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may recall the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 2007. No? Well, I am sure now that Moran was the shooter, not that it can be proven."

"Unbelievable," Lestrade sighed, pushing his hand back through his hair, "And this was the bloke sent to.. sent after John and I?"

"And Mrs. Hudson, yes," Sherlock acknowledged, "So long as he was free in London, your lives were in danger. Night and day the shadow would have been over you and sooner or later his chance would come."

Lestrade reached into the pouch and caressed the furry bodies, "It nearly did, a couple of times, but these little guys called him out for us."

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, "They've proven themselves quite handy." He went to examine the duplicate slumped over John's laptop. "Look at that: Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the brain. He was a crack long-distance shot and I expect that there are few better--*" Abruptly an image flashed before his eyes, overlaying the decimated double.

"Well, thank God it's over with," Lestrade sighed, "I know I'll sleep soundly at night, knowing that one's out of the picture.." He broke off -- Sherlock was grey and shaking like a leaf.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John stepped immediately in front of him, completely blocking his view of the mutilated duplicate. Gently, he took Sherlock's hands and placed them on his own head. "That's where he was aiming, when you were on the roof?" he asked softly. Sherlock nodded imperceptibly, his breathing ragged and uneven. "Come sit down." 

He guided Sherlock to sit in his chair and knelt before him, never letting his hands leave John's head, over the imagined wounds. Sherlock couldn't stop shaking and his breath hitched in dry sobs, riffling John's unbloodied gold-and-silver hair through his fingers. John reached up to cup his cheek and their tears spilled over. 

_"People thought I should punish him,"_ Lestrade remembered John venting, as he watched them, " _For what he did to me. They never once think about what it did to **him.** They think I should punish him for what he did, never mind that he only did it to save our bloody lives!"_ He set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently. 

Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea next to Sherlock and stroked her fingers through his hair. "Heaven's missing one of its angels," she said softly. Sherlock winced, haunted by his own words to Moriarty.

John and Lestrade looked at each other. "I don't know, he doesn't look much like an angel to me. What do you think, Greg?"

"Hard to tell. He doesn't act very angelic, unless angels are known to tear about and leave a path of chaos and disruption in their wake."

"Ezekiel angels might."

"Hm! Good point and he's got the voice of thunder."

"I found a sword hidden under the book case, once."

"Hm! Sword, voice of thunder, he carves a path of righteous destruction through the forces of evil and I'm sure we could make a case for the coat being wings in disguise."

"He doesn't fly very well, though," John pointed out, "He just goes splat." 

That did the trick - Sherlock started snickering. "You're all idiots," he murmured fondly, peering up at them -- the three people he did all this work for, the people he'd sacrificed everything for. The three people he loved the most.

After a few more minutes, they withdrew, leaving John and Sherlock alone. They gazed at each other for several long minutes before Sherlock said, "'He just goes splat'?" and they both fell into each other's arms, giggling helplessly. Sherlock's phone chimed and he looked at it. "Mycroft's clean-up crew is arriving. He's sending glaziers in the morning." Another chime and he grunted, "I thought I heard someone in the C flat - his thug will stay and keep an eye on things."

"Was that the last of them? Moriarty's assassins?" John asked softly.

"Yes."

"And... Are we safe now? It's over?"

"I think so, yes." John took his hands and held them in his own. Sherlock watched, silent. "It's changed me, John," he whispered finally. 

"I know," John answered, just as softly, "You've gone places you should never have had to go and done things you should never have had to do. It leaves a mark." Sherlock was listening, letting the words wash over him, so John kept talking. "The army changed me; that's why I can't hang out with any of my old mates from before I enlisted. They expected me to go back to the way I was, to be the same old John Watson they used to know. But I can't." 

"I kept hoping... things could go back to the way they were.. but that's not going to happen, is it."

"No," John agreed, "You're not the Sherlock I used to know and... I'm not the John you used to know. We're both too changed to go back to the way we were." He lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock's again, "That's why we got married, to keep up with the changes. We both changed, so we had to change _us_ so we could keep going forward."

Sherlock stared at their linked hands again, "I'm glad you still make sense. Nothing else did. Three years and none of it made any sense at all."

"I know. Try being in Afghanistan."

"I was." 

John tipped his head, "Sorry?"

Sherlock drew out a small phial on a chain around his neck, "One of my missions took me to Khandahar. I remembered a few of your stories... There was a sheltered spot with some blood stains. One of the soldiers told me about a doctor they'd nicknamed 'The Saviour', because he seemed miraculous. He'd dive into sniper fire to retrieve a patient and the bullets wouldn't touch him. He could dance through a mine field like he had a sixth sense telling him where to step. And skill? - they said that if he found you first, you were almost certain to live, but you'd have to search to find the scars because they'd be nearly invisible." John was barely breathing. "Then the Saviour's luck ran out. He was shot and invalided home and that was the end of him, so far as they knew. Where we were standing was where he was shot and that was his blood spatter, the blood of The Saviour. So I scraped up a few samples and brought them home with me and when I had the chance, I had Molly run some tests. The DNA was degraded but she still came up with a match." He closed his fingers around the phial. "You never told me your nickname."

"Bit.. sacreligious," John managed. He wasn't sure how he felt about it - Sherlock, standing on the spot where he'd been shot, imagining how his career had ended, scraping samples of the blood in the hopes that it was John's. "Why... would you do that?"

But he could read the answer in Sherlock's eyes, _In case I never saw you again._ But Sherlock replied, "For luck."

John's lips twitched into a little smile, "I thought you didn't believe in luck."

"I didn't," Sherlock replied and touched John's face lightly, "Until I met you."


	8. Harriet the Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft fusses over his family. John ruminates over his sister. Sherlock nicks John's breakfast.

_"No. All right, stop it now."_

_"No, John, stay exactly where you are." reaching out, as though he could touch John from so high up, from so far away "Don’t move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

_"Do what?" reaching back, as though he could touch Sherlock from so far down, from so far away_

_"This phone call – it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John."_

_"Boys.. Go!"_

_running, from so far down, from so far away_

_little feet, running_

_into his arms_

_little furry bodies, cuddling_

_licking his chin, hiding treats in his hair_

_as he lay cuddled against John_

_against the arm of the couch, in front of the fire_

_there's something stupid on the telly, he looks up at John_

_and everything is fine_

His eyes opened and immediately squeezed shut against the light. He groaned and threw his arm across them, letting himself adjust, then opened them again and looked around. He was missing a John. This would not do. He was missing his bedwarmer and cuddlebug. Instead he had his teddy-John, an endearing and much treasured but ultimately inferior substitute. Although he would suffice for the nonce, the situation would simply have to be corrected. 

Problem: He could not correct the situation without leaving the bed. A quick search of the nightstand revealed that his phone had been taken away and true to Mycroft's promise, the west wing of the estate had been cordoned off to give them privacy. 

There was, however, a cup of tea on the nightstand. He picked it up and took a sip then wrapped his hands around it. It was his favourite cup when he was a child: Mycroft must have unearthed it from the attic or perhaps he had never removed it from the kitchen in the first place. It had been far too big for his hands when he was a little boy and now it was much too small, so it shed heat quickly - the tea was still lukewarm so the bringer hadn't been gone long. The tea was the peculiar fragrant blend that John had taken to fixing in the middle of the night. He inhaled deeply: Assam and Yunnan for strength and depth, some spice, a hint of rose, and a bit of lapsang souchong smokiness. It smelled like the fireplace and Mrs. Hudson's perfume. It smelled like safety and security. It smelled like home. It smelled like John. He drained the cup then wrapped himself up and got out of bed to find John. 

_"Sherlock!"_

John looked around, "He was wearing pants when I left him." Sherlock snickered, stumbling into the kitchen wrapped up in the sheet. The estate house was too cold not to wear pyjamas in bed and they were just visible under the sheet, but it was fun to pull Mycroft's chain. He kicked a chair over next to John's and flopped into it. "'Morning, sleepyhead," John kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair. 

Sherlock grunted and eyed the tall glass of mauve that had been placed before him, garnished with a sprig of mint. "And before you make any wisecracks about me poisoning it, John made it," Mycroft told him. He was puttering about near the hob, mucking about with spinach and poaching eggs and making lemon butter. 

"Three for me, thanks." A few moments later, a plate with three Eggs Florentine on toast, finished with lemon butter and flaked salt, was slid before him. "Ta, Mycroft. Appreciate it."

"Not at all," Mycroft smiled, sitting down opposite, watching John tuck into his eggs and Sherlock sipping the blackberry and blueberry - John called it 'bruiseberry' - fruit smoothie that John had loaded up with proteins and emptied vitamin capsules into. His phone chimed yet again and he pulled it out and pecked off a quick message, smirking. 

"Careful, your smug is showing," Sherlock commented.

Mycroft nodded. "It's the modern, civilised equivalent of putting his head upon a pike and parading it through the streets," he said, "The conclusion of Colonel Moran will put quite a few countries in the international community at their ease."

"Your newest thug is quite the crack shot."

"She didn't even need much training," Mycroft agreed, "She takes after her brother that way."

John hadn't believed his ears when he'd heard the voice outside of 221b, directing Mycroft's clean-up crew. He'd attributed it to being awake for nearly 24 hours and spiked up on adrenaline after their assault on Colonel Moran. Surely he was mistaking the voice, surely it was some other woman who just happened to sound like her. Harry was in jail, it couldn't possibly be Harriet Watson. 

But it was.

"She tried to kill you!" 

"Yes!" Mycroft said brightly, "Given the level of security surveillance around me and my own abilities at divining people's motives, the fact that she was able to abduct me so easily is quite impressive!"

"She tried to kill you!"

Sherlock shook his hands, "Think like Mycroft, John! She looks so ordinary but she's clever and she's got talent, nerve and skill going to waste and needing direction."

"She tried to kill _your brother!_ Am I the only one who sees anything wrong with that?"

"Which is why he wants her right where he can see her, not rotting in some jail cell learning who knows what. No, he wants her under **his** thumb, under **his** eye and under **his** control and you **know** what that entails, John." John did. Sherlock shook his head, "She's going to wish she'd stayed in jail." 

Mycroft smiled and shrugged apologetically, "It really is the better option, John, given her background."

_"I was given an offer I was told I shouldn't refuse," Harry had told John and she'd shown him the electronic anklet she wore. She was a dog on a leash and she knew it._

_And he'd sighed and gone upstairs and come back down with a handful of papers. "You'll need these," he'd told her._

_She'd smiled with delight, "Bickering-bingo cards?"_

_"Harry, they're worse than we are, they'll melt your brains out of your ears. It's the only way you're going to survive."_

"I suppose that's true," John sighed, thinking of how much Harry had changed. When they were young, she'd been a pacifist; she'd hated him for enlisting, screamed at him when he was assigned to Afghanistan. He wondered what had happened that had changed her so much, then realised he'd never asked. Maybe because he didn't want to face the answer. He glanced at his plate and realised over half his egg had disappeared, "Oy! You know, if you wanted an egg, I'm quite certain Mycroft will be happy to make one for you."

"No thanks, he'll try to poison it."

"No he won't."

"Besides, you know I never eat when I'm on a case."

"You're not on a case."

"Yes I am, I'm investigating John Watson's missing egg." John broke up in giggles and Sherlock smiled. 

Mycroft's phone chimed again and he looked at it then pecked off a reply. "That was the new Foreign Secretary..."

"Found another boss?" Sherlock sounded unsurprised.

"After quite an intensive search, yes. It's rather a challenge, to find the required levels of gullibility, political savvy, tact and media presentation. A certain amount of stupidity is advantageous to the job, you see," Mycroft explained to the astonished Doctor Watson, "Unfortunately, Lord Trelawney Hope proved to be a bit _too_ stupid." Sherlock snickered. "Anyhow, his successor believes that your actions in all of this should warrant putting your name forward for a knighthood..."

"Don't you threaten me!"

"...But I told him you don't take kindly to threats," Mycroft finished evenly. He pushed Sherlock's phone forward, "You have had several text messages and a few calls sent to voice mail."

Sherlock grunted and thumbed his phone. "One from Molly.. There's been an adoption application put in for Steve and Anthony."

John's face fell, "The rats are leaving? Oh..."

"And a text from Lestrade, saying he's just applied to adopt the rats. He says they saved his life, the least he can do is give them a permanent home."

"Guess we can't say no to that," John smiled, "I'm going to miss the little blighters though."

"Aaand here's a message from the animal rescue, asking if I can take three more rats into foster."

"Ha! Well, I guess that all works out, then."

Mycroft's phone chimed again. "Ah, the glaziers have finished. You can return to 221b Baker Street at any time." 

Sherlock eyed his big brother. Mycroft was as much of a solitary person as he was and valued his privacy, yet there was a hint - just a hint - that he wished his little brother would stay just a little while longer. "I'm not finished breakfast yet," he drawled, in the face of his empty glass and John's decimated egg. 

John glanced at him then at Mycroft. Then he smiled and reached for his wallet to pull out a flash drive, "Good thing I brought this, then. Mycroft's got that wide screen telly."

Sherlock frowned, "What is it?"

"It's season 8 of _Canada's Worst Driver._ All eight episodes."

Sherlock grinned and Mycroft frowned, "Isn't that one of those ridiculous 'reality' shows?"

John nodded, "Yes. He likes this one though."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged, "You'll see."

Mycroft poured another cup of tea. "I suppose I shall."


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits the cemetery one more time.

It was a grey and overcast evening. John walked through the streets, tired after a long day but not exhausted. He thought about picking up some take-away on the way home. He was looking forward to a quiet evening in with his partner. Hopefully, Sherlock would let them have one. 

Two months had passed since the death of Colonel Moran had released them to resume their normal lives -- well, as normal as they ever got, which wasn't very. Sherlock was back working on cases, now earning a Special Consultant's fee that had mysteriously appeared on the Met's budget. 

Right now, Sherlock was over at Greg Lestrade's flat, helping him introduce the new pair of adoptees to Greg's existing five, now collectively called "The Avengers," which never failed to make John shake his head - he'd never have taken Greg for a super-heroes fan. He pecked off a quick text message then pocketed his phone and looked around. He was near the cemetery.

Dr. Jason Emmerson had proven to be exactly what Sherlock needed. John had had the privilege of sitting in on one of their early sessions and he'd been surprised by how different his approach had been, completely perpendicular to the approaches Ella had used. He'd watched, amazed, as Sherlock processed a good chunk of his rooftop meeting with Moriarty into an enormous flow-chart, identifying each event, sensation, sound, image and emotion. Unlike Ella, "Jase" used techniques that were suited to the way Sherlock's mind worked and bypassed identifying Sherlock's emotions in favour of simply acknowledging their existence and intensity by the colour and size of their shape on the flow chart. Afterwards, Sherlock had drawn a very large emotion shape, in the colour he'd chosen for 'good feeling.' He'd thought for a moment then drawn a little Sun and tiny Earth inside the shape, for scale. Then he'd labelled the Sun as "John" and the tiny Earth as "Me" and John had nearly lost it right then and there. He'd looked back at Sherlock and whispered, _"Sometimes, the Sun does go around the Earth."_

At least they weren't wasting money, like he had with Ella, he'd thought regretfully. After a few sessions of EMDR therapy, John had been able to sleep the night through peacefully for nearly a month. He'd described to his new therapist how Sherlock's violin could reach into John's nightmares and calm him, and after listening to John hum a few bars, his new therapist had decided to emphasise the audio component of the therapy. The results, John felt, were quite satisfactory and he felt more whole than he had since before Sherlock had died.

He walked into the cemetery. The polished black marble headstone was still there. He was a little disturbed by knowing, now, who lay beneath that grave. John had poured his heart out to that grave more than a few times, before he'd realised that he knew more than he was supposed to and gone off to confront Mycroft. But he'd gotten what he'd asked for. He'd begged for one more miracle and he'd gotten it.

"Well that didn't go according to plan, did it," John said without preamble, "You set out to 'burn the heart out of him', he said. You tried, certainly, can't knock points off for trying. It might have worked, if..." _If I hadn't been to Afghanistan. If I hadn't had my perceptions altered. If I had been.. ordinary._ "But it didn't work. In fact, you achieved the exact opposite. Almost feel I should thank you, really; thanks to you, we're closer than ever. Married now, in fact. I'd show you but it's the wrong finger."

"He can't hear you, John," said a rich voice behind him, "He's dead."

John turned and smiled, "Yeah, I know. Just felt like gloating, that's all. Doesn't do anything for him but it makes me feel better. I mean, look at him, he's not even alive to know if he'd won or lost and isn't that the whole point?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Overconfident, I suppose." He turned and sat on the headstone then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. "Don't look at me like that," he said, waving the smoke away from John, "There were days when songs on the media player weren't quite enough. I needed **something.** "

"I didn't say anything," John said mildly, "You quit once, you can do it again."

Sherlock grunted and blew smoke through his nostrils, then skootched over a bit to let John sit beside him. "Why'd you come here?"

"Felt like gloating," John said again, "I don't know... We were having a laugh about him in Jase's office... I guess it felt like he was losing his power over us. Losing the power to give us nightmares and interfere with our lives."

"Hm."

"You?"

"You're here."

"So? You could have just got me and we'd go home together. Why stop here for a fag?"

Sherlock blew out an insouciant smoke ring, "Thought I'd give it a try."

"Give what a try? Gloating?"

"Mm."

"You? Why?"

"Mm. Because he's dead and buried under the name of the man he tried to kill, who's still alive and got his arse parked on his headstone and is insolently smoking a fag." John burst into hysterical giggles and Sherlock grinned. 

"It's true," John agreed, "He wanted to stop you shutting down his work and burn the heart out of you but instead he's dead, his family's dead, his network's been torn apart and we're married. As plans go, that's probably the most epic backfire ever." Sherlock's laughter was as rare as it was full and rich and it filled John's heart to hear it. "Gimme that," he said and stole the cigarette. He took a drag off of it and coughed, "Gah, how you can stand this, I'll never know." But he handed it back to Sherlock, who took it with a little smile of gratitude. 

"You don't have to inhale, John."

"You know, there's research that indicates nicotine might have anti-psychotic properties," John commented, "Obviously somebody saw you having a nic-fit." Sherlock chuckled quietly and took another drag. "Does that make you a bigamist?"

"Hm?"

"You told me once you were married to your work," John grinned, "But as far as I know, you never filed for divorce."

Sherlock chuckled, "I'm still married to my work. The nature of my work has changed."

John looked at him, "How so?"

"It became less about what I found interesting and more about what would John find interesting. What would John like blogging about, what would make John feel like we're making a difference in the world, what would make John feel useful." He looked at John and smiled. 

John was staring at him. "Really?" he said at last, "I never realised."

"I know," Sherlock shrugged, "I'm still married to my work but my work became you." He leaned over and John met his lips in a tender, lingering kiss. 

"Oy, do you hear something spinning?" John quipped when they parted, "And you taste like an ashtray."

Sherlock chuckled and blew out another smoke ring then flicked the ashes off his cigarette, "You don't mind when it's lapsang souchong."

"That's because lapsang souchong doesn't taste like an ashtray."

"It's still smoke."

" _Not_ the same, Sherlock, and you know it. You who catalogued two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash."

"Yes, did you hear they cracked a case with that? Anderson was furious." 

John's laughter pealed out sharp and high, cutting through the evening. "Anderson needs to get his head out of his arse and realise that the important thing is solving cases properly, not massaging his ego."

"Mm, well he's got someone other than Sally doing that now." John nearly fell off the headstone for laughing. Sherlock flicked his cigarette again, "Got a call from Interpol."

John nodded. Interpol was still seeking Sherlock's assistance, not wanting to let go of "Agent Sigerson" now they'd had him. "What have they got?"

"Half a million gallons of maple syrup gone missing from Montreal, in Canada."

John frowned, "Who nicks that much syrup? Pancakes Anonymous?"

"I know," Sherlock chuckled, "It has Moriarty written all over it. 'Please, Jim, the feds have dried up our regular sources of income, what else can we traffic for revenue?'"

"Maple syrup," John nodded, "That does make a twisted kind of sense."

"I suspect it's related to the honeybees that went missing from British Columbia."

"Couldn't they have flown off?"

"Half a million hives' worth?"

"I suppose not." John pushed his hand through his hair and sighed, "So, it's _still_ not over yet?"

"Oh it's over," Sherlock replied, "If anything, these are just the dregs, just some clients he'd consulted for. The RCMP are on to them, after all."

"Hm. So, you're off to Canada, then."

"Eastern Canada this time. Montreal, probably Toronto, probably visit a few of the syrup farms in between to find out how they work. Apparently there's a cartel."

"A maple syrup cartel."

"Mm. I know. Sounds entertaining, at the least. You'll book a flight, then?"

John was silent for a moment then took a breath, "Sherlock... I don't... I don't think I can let you go alone anymore... Not after..."

"Mm. That works out, then," Sherlock took another drag off his cigarette and blew it out, "Because I don't think I can stand to leave you behind." He looked at John and John read _I can't stand worrying about whether you're still alive to come home to_ behind his eyes. 

"Right," John sighed, relieved, "That's settled then. Montreal it is. You know, we might get there in time for them to start the new season of _Canada's Greatest Know-It-All._ "

Sherlock dragged the cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out against the headstone. Then he stood up and brushed down his coat, "Canada's what? Why would we want to watch some stupid quiz show?"

"Oh it's not a quiz show," John said as they started to walk away, "They actually have to prove it. You know, by doing."

"Hm."

"I could get you the first season, if you like."

"Might be entertaining."

"Yes, I thought maybe."

Their voices faded as they walked. The polished black marble of the headstone was like a mirror, reflecting their shapes growing smaller as they left Moriarty behind and walked back towards the light and rush of London, back towards the cosy warmth of 221b Baker Street. Back towards their lives as the world's only consulting detectives.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.


End file.
